Taste of Freedom

She tasted so good. She told me she was a vegetarian. I could taste the health. Her body screamed “Yoga”. Her pores excreted lavender. Her breath was patchouli incense smoke.

She never wanted to make love alone, she couldn’t arrive without a threesome. Her vibrator moaned louder than I. We would compete, but the vibrator always won.

I washed off the sex in her shower. Mold was growing out of her faucet, encircling me on the walls and ceiling. I felt it crawling on me. I felt dirty after the shower. Like the mold, she tried to suffocate me too.

It was easier for me to let her think she broke my heart by ending our relationship than me having to do it. I didn’t want to ever own her and sure as hell didn’t want her to feed on my freedom. She didn’t it know it, but my insides were together. Her insides were held by temporary supports like a boyfriend, a Facebook like, an instagram heart, a friend, and mostly by material things.

My insides were held together by me. She thought me callous and empty because I didn’t need her to make me happy. Her happy wasn’t there to stay, it was floating in and out of her like the amount of men she fell in love with.

She was a vegetarian. She tasted good. But her brain tasted of raw arugula. She was a vegetarian with purses, heels, and clothes made of animal flesh and suffering.